


Skin Deep

by SandrC



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dermatophagia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 00:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19937239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Case #0151204Statement of Isolde Speare, regarding their dermatophagia, taken on December 4th, 2015.





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: graphic depictions of dermatophagic skin-picking, mentions of autocannibalism, mentions of self-harm, and allusions to skinning other people.
> 
> To Darren: I'd say "eat me", but that would be too apt to be funny. Consider, as a consolation, that this doesn't have bugs in it. You're welcome. It could've been the Corruption or the Web. I am a merciful friend.
> 
> (Projecting? What's that? I'm not projecting! That'd be silly.)

I've never had a say in things. Not when it comes to my body. I don't know if it's a byproduct of assigned gender roles or if it's just my parents trying to vicariously live some fantasy through me. Like I was some sort of doll for them to dress up and puppeteer about like a pretty little thing.

It's fine now. I'm the one in control. They have no power over me any more.

So I have dermatophagia. Or, rather, _had_? It's hard to find the line between _then_ and _now_ and define the difference. I'll just stick with _have_. Seems more...ephemeral. More _honest_.

I have dermatophagia. That means I compulsively pick at and consume my own skin, nails, and hair. For me it's always centered at my fingers, my nailbeds, and my arms. Any bit of flesh that would peel away with little resistance. Anything I could pick at or reach with my teeth. And not a single flake was wasted. It all was returned back within me, to start the cycle anew.

I didn't always talk about it so calmly though. It's actually classified as a medical disorder and, because of my parents and my own tenuous relationship with gender and presentation and people _touching me_ , I originally viewed it as a disease as well. My hands were covered in plasters, my nails done up with bitter topcoats, and I would even go so far as to rub peppers on the pockmarks where I had broken skin. It was a cycle of punishment and pain and compulsion. Sometimes I didn't even notice till blood was running down my arms and then I'd wash the wound out with sanitizer and cry as the alcohol burned through my veins. It became a cleansing fire and a step farther into self harm than _anyone_ should've been comfortable with. But no one noticed. Or, they didn't see it as a _problem_

The thing about being female-labeled is that you often have words thrown at you from a young age that are burrs, digging beneath your skin. Pretty. Smile. Thin. Skinny. Soft. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Doll.

I _hated_ those words but...Pavlovian conditioning and all.

And _pretty little Isolde_ had thin features because she couldn't hold a fork without bleeding some days. _Pretty little Isolde_ was clear-skinned because she learned how to contour her arms with primer and powders to hide darkened scars that ran up and down the insides of her wrists. _Pretty little Isolde_ smiled a lot because if she didn't she chewed her lips to hell and back.

So no one saw the issue. Not often.

It got bad about the time I got into Uni; the compulsions, that is. I was going for a Bachelor's in English Education, not enough to really warrant the attendance but I figured "better this than retail work for the rest of your life, you layabout!" I'd get a cozy job teaching and then do that till I died. Life and all. But the cotton bandages covering my hands and arms looked bad and my professors started asking questions.

What was I supposed to tell them? "Oh, yeah, it's _fine_. I'm just stuck in a cycle of punishment and compulsion that leaves me unable to move my fingers for all the plasters on them"? They'd have me committed or tell me to talk to someone and I _couldn't do that again_. It was bad enough the first time.

So I just stopped going. Continued to pick and chew and bleed. To burn and cry and hunger.

Then the voices started.

It was small things. Little things like "chew away the layer of fat, show the bone beneath." Or "bite harder, you can't taste the pain yet." Or, my favorite "your tendons would look gorgeous, flexing gently for the world to see." Psychologists call them "intrusive thoughts" and they're not _wrong_. Most of the time, with people that suffer depression and compulsions and other mental disorders, they _are_ intrusive. Unwanted and unwarranted. But these were _different_.

I _liked_ them. I indulged in them I let them play in my head like a cassette, over and over again, until I fell asleep and dreamed of something I rarely remembered. Pleasant. Like a cloud of puffy red. Drifting and warm. _Pulsing_. Bare.

I would close my eyes and imagine tearing my cheeks until my smile became all of my face. I would press my fingers against my eyes and think about plucking them free of their sockets and consuming their solid weight. I would scratch the itch beneath my skin and drink the blood from under my nails.

I began to think of myself as an Orobourous. Consuming myself to be eternal. A self-contained cycle. Eternal.

Peel away the top layer of me, of Isolde, and what did you have left? _Meat_. Meat and blood and bone and fat and tendons. Skin was only that. Skin was only the top layer, the fondant, the icing. And if beauty was skin deep then, well, I would remain _as ugly as I wanted_. I would be _free_ if my skin was gone.

Waste not, want not though! It wouldn't do to pick away the skin and _not_ take it back and make it something better. So it escalated. And it changed.

Reduce, reuse, recycle. Consume what you cast off. Be conscientious Isolde!

 _Devour yourself_. Become an Ouroboros.

I'm sure you can see me from your window. I'm sure you can _See_ me, Archivist. Can you See me pull the borrowed skin I'm wearing tighter around me? Can you See how poorly it fits, how loose, how wet? Can you See me peel strips away and chew on them like jerky? Did you See me take this one to wear?

It doesn't matter. Not like you or your Eye would do more than Watch anyway. Passive lot, you Watchers. _Persistent_ , but passive.

And I'm sure you Know I wouldn't take anything from your kind here. They haven't asked me to smile or told me I'm pretty. No fun if they won't scream.

They've been _far_ too nice for me to want to anyway.

I'd say it came to a head _about_ four or so months after I started not showing up to class. Time is fuzzy most of the time but I _do_ remember that midterms were coming. When the compulsions hit hardest and the voices began to scream the loudest, I couldn't help but succumb to my Hunger. "If the world wants you pretty," they said, "then _do_ it. Take your beauty in your hands and _make it yours_. Make it so that next time they ask, you can oblige with _all that you are."_

And I _did_.

Despite what some people think, it _is_ possible to scratch through the epidermis and the dermis with a fair amount of precision. It doesn't all look like grinding lemon zest or shredding cheese through a grater. If you have patience and nails filed to a razor-fine blade, you can strip flesh from meat as easily as shucking corn. Though, judging by your slightly ill expression, I think I may need to lay off the food metaphors. That's fine. Disgust isn't filling and you are rather boring, Archivist.

When I was done, my skin lay in ribbons around me. It hurt, in the way that a good shower does, when you're all red and steaming, and I was free. _I was free_.

I cried, I think. I cried with joy as I ate each bit of me that I had taken off. I cried with relief as I ate what everyone liked best about me. And when I was done, I pulled on some heavy clothes and I went out, finally free to be me.

I wasn't Isolde Speare any more. Or, I was, but I was _more_.

And I was Hungry.

I'm sure I don't need to explain to you what it felt like to find my calling. To settle into my role. The first time a man told me that I should "smile more" and I showed him my smile? He screamed _so loud_ and, as I took the skin off of him, I felt _so complete_. I wasn't Hungry any more. And his skin was _so warm_ and such a _nice_ color. He had a birthmark on his back in the shape of a cashew. He had a burn scar on his lower leg.

It was a lovely skin and I _so_ enjoyed consuming it, though I had to take it in a bit at the waist. He was, after all, a much bigger man than I. It was difficult to find a belt that matched his tone though. Minor complaints. Petty, really.

I will say this: the dermatophagia never left. It's just not _my_ skin to begin with. And it's not a compulsion but a ritual of sorts. Like the Eucharist, only more...personal. _Holy_. A sanctity of my own flesh and blood.

Or, rather, of other's.

When they call me "pretty" now it's a relief. It's a joy. Because if they think I'm pretty wearing someone else's skin, then _imagine_ how pretty they'll find me wearing theirs? _Very_ , I'd assume, if they lived to see it.

They don't, but that's beside the point.

Archivist, I wonder if you have ever told someone they need to smile. If you've ever told someone they look pretty when they didn't ask. If you've ever lingered too long on exposed skin and thought about the horrors beneath.

If so, I'd say that you should watch yourself.

If not? Well consider yourself lucky.

Because you have _such_ lovely skin, scars and all. And I wonder how you'd taste.

**Author's Note:**

> Archivist Notes:
> 
> While Isolde themself has all but disappeared from all public record, I did have Basira check up on any missing persons cases from 2015 and 2016. Isolde Speare was declared missing when their flatmate came back to a blood-soaked carpet and an unlocked door. They haven't been seen since and, as of 2017, their case is now considered closed and they are presumed dead. We, of course, know better.
> 
> How many missing persons cases have they caused since then? Dozens, I'd assume.
> 
> I'd speculate as to what Isolde served but it doesn't take much to realize that the Flesh had a hand here. Consumption of skin, wearing of others, it's all rather grim. Though their compulsive Hunger only coming to light when catcalled is interesting. I suppose even the Entities have senses of humor.
> 
> Or maybe the most fear comes from someone who feels they have the upper hand over their predator.
> 
> It's incredibly easy to draw comparisons between them and Jane Prentiss or them and Jared Hopworth. Jane for her use of the disarming nature of a scared woman in a dress. Jared for their shared indifference in the greater call of the Flesh and their shared Patron.
> 
> I hope they don't run into any Hunters. Not because I want them to live, but because I don't think either party would fare well. They seem to know how to get under your skin, if you'll pardon the pun, and Hunters aren't known for their sense of humor. Daisy notwithstanding, of course.
> 
> I don't exactly remember the day that Isolde came by. I do, however, remember feeling itchy, like something was sizing me up. Adjascent to the Watching of the Eye or the residual of the Corruption but more...voyeuristic? That must've been them looking at me, wondering how I would feel if they wore me.
> 
> It's...unpleasant, to say the least. At least they don't seem outright antagonistic.
> 
> I hope they never come back. I hope they never have a reason to.


End file.
